A Reading,
If she has dreamed of the paint mare, too, she shows no sign of it.
But there is still something knowing in her gaze as the woman steps into her tent as though already knowing what she will find there. The shed-star says nothing to her response, only smiles tight-lipped and begins to shuffle the cards.
Between them drifts the scent of incense, smoke twisting in the candlelight. It twines like snakes above the velvet of the table, it blots out the smells of the world outside. There is nothing but the flicker-thwack of her cards against the table, worn and creased at the corners, ink gleaming like old blood.
When the question comes the reader looks up, and her gaze is pointed. Now, only now, is there a ghost of smile against her wrinkled lips; her eyes reflect points of candlelight through drifting silver smoke.
It is not a kind smile, but she is patient, and well-accustomed to questions so spoken.
Her muzzle drifts over the table as she at last sets down the cards. She cuts the deck and flips up three and the rectangles of ink and paper fill the space between them: the mother of wands, the moon, the two of pentacles.
The shed-star leans back, and perhaps there is satisfaction on her face as she regards the mare. Perhaps it is understanding.
“I suppose,” she says dryly, and her voice is like her cards: old and rich and creased with years and use. “that whatever I say it is only yourself you will listen to.” She indicates the first card, the mother of wands. On it is a snake twining about a clutch of eggs, her brood; a single branch splits the card like a lightning-fork. “She is proud, she is determined, she will protect those given under her care to the last.” She is you, she does not say - but her gaze seems to suggest it, when she lifts it from the card to the woman before her. “When you discover your path you must devote yourself to it. Only that will lead to success.”
When she indicates the moon - a sliver, bold yellow, hung in the black between two towering trees - her grin turns almost wicked. “The Moon is for dreaming,” she says, and the candles flicker and gutter, carving hollows into her cheek, putting darkness in her eyes. “And also for fear. Do not be hasty in parsing your path - but do not be afraid of the darker sides of yourself. Listen to your intuition, and look to the new moon to begin.”
The last card is a butterfly, with pentacles caught in its wings, bound with a swathe of color. Almost the shed-star laughs. “Change is coming for you,” she says, “more than you have seen already. You cannot escape it - you can only face it with the grace of the Mother. If you are brave, if you do not lose your way, it will bring you balance.”
At once she flips the cards, shuffles them back into the deck. They are lost amid the multitude, and when the old mare looks up again her eyes are as distant and inscrutable as the moon.
“Now,” she says, and her grin is like another canyon carved into her face, “I suppose you go, and pay attention to where you dreaming-self takes you next.”
@Morrighan // credit goes to griff for this one
But there is still something knowing in her gaze as the woman steps into her tent as though already knowing what she will find there. The shed-star says nothing to her response, only smiles tight-lipped and begins to shuffle the cards.
Between them drifts the scent of incense, smoke twisting in the candlelight. It twines like snakes above the velvet of the table, it blots out the smells of the world outside. There is nothing but the flicker-thwack of her cards against the table, worn and creased at the corners, ink gleaming like old blood.
When the question comes the reader looks up, and her gaze is pointed. Now, only now, is there a ghost of smile against her wrinkled lips; her eyes reflect points of candlelight through drifting silver smoke.
It is not a kind smile, but she is patient, and well-accustomed to questions so spoken.
Her muzzle drifts over the table as she at last sets down the cards. She cuts the deck and flips up three and the rectangles of ink and paper fill the space between them: the mother of wands, the moon, the two of pentacles.
The shed-star leans back, and perhaps there is satisfaction on her face as she regards the mare. Perhaps it is understanding.
“I suppose,” she says dryly, and her voice is like her cards: old and rich and creased with years and use. “that whatever I say it is only yourself you will listen to.” She indicates the first card, the mother of wands. On it is a snake twining about a clutch of eggs, her brood; a single branch splits the card like a lightning-fork. “She is proud, she is determined, she will protect those given under her care to the last.” She is you, she does not say - but her gaze seems to suggest it, when she lifts it from the card to the woman before her. “When you discover your path you must devote yourself to it. Only that will lead to success.”
When she indicates the moon - a sliver, bold yellow, hung in the black between two towering trees - her grin turns almost wicked. “The Moon is for dreaming,” she says, and the candles flicker and gutter, carving hollows into her cheek, putting darkness in her eyes. “And also for fear. Do not be hasty in parsing your path - but do not be afraid of the darker sides of yourself. Listen to your intuition, and look to the new moon to begin.”
The last card is a butterfly, with pentacles caught in its wings, bound with a swathe of color. Almost the shed-star laughs. “Change is coming for you,” she says, “more than you have seen already. You cannot escape it - you can only face it with the grace of the Mother. If you are brave, if you do not lose your way, it will bring you balance.”
At once she flips the cards, shuffles them back into the deck. They are lost amid the multitude, and when the old mare looks up again her eyes are as distant and inscrutable as the moon.
“Now,” she says, and her grin is like another canyon carved into her face, “I suppose you go, and pay attention to where you dreaming-self takes you next.”
@Morrighan // credit goes to griff for this one
